


not her fault

by kirayukikira



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Death, F/M, not in depth really to but still, suicide TW, why do make myself cry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 14:28:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5167256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirayukikira/pseuds/kirayukikira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>she’s 25. she’s 25 when she comes home to a card on the table. shoes kicked off like jokers discarded from a deck of cards, laid lazily in the corner. purse on the chair, like it always is. phone in her pocket. she'll  remember the way the cabinets stood above her like trees in an empty forest, the way the tile felt cold and cynical under her feet. she'll remember the way the paper felt under her nails, cool and clear and crisp. the feeling of hopelessness  and helplessness as she reads the words of her best friend/partner/almost lover/ almost *something*, dappled between tears and she can't tell if they're his or her own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not her fault

**Author's Note:**

> i love pain :')

there's an ache in his heart where she used to be. right smack in the middle, that familiar , stabbing pain, like jemma herself went and stabbed that cold knife of guilt in, twisting it around until he bled out. he knows it’s not her fault. it’s not her fault for leaving, it’s never her fault. its his fault, right? he’s the one that went and broke, went and broke down and now he's left a half-shell of what he was Before. whenever he says it, it feels like a big word. monumental, heavy on the tongue, like the guilt in his heart hole crawled out of his chest and lay on his tongue, like the lumps that gather in his throat sometimes, making it impossible for him to speak, if he could even find the words. Before. it’s not her fault.

when he sees her it’s remembering. its flashes that come slowly then quickly then too quick and it makes him want to pass out because oblivion would be better than this, would be better than images if laughter and joy and white coats and rules and boundaries and Before. when he says it now it seems heavier than it was even a few weeks ago, a few seconds. then seconds become days and days become months and it's months then, months since they last spoke, months since his mouth had only failed him by betraying his brain. months since stay away meant the same as come here please but only in this language of heartbreak only he seemed to be fluent in. then its years. one year, two years, three years. three years can be an eternity if you wait long enough. he sits at an empty table and looks at the card. 7 years and all he gets is a card. hes 25. it’s been three years since Before. the card, it’s not her fault.

it’s never her fault.

she’s 25. she’s 25 when she comes home to a card on the table. shoes kicked off like jokers discarded from a deck of cards, laid lazily in the corner. purse on the chair, like it always is. phone in her pocket. she'll remember the way the cabinets stood above her like trees in an empty forest, the way the tile felt cold and cynical under her feet. she'll remember the way the paper felt under her nails, cool and clear and crisp. the feeling of hopelessness and helplessness as she reads the words of her best friend/partner/almost lover/ almost *something*, dappled between tears and she can't tell if they're his or her own. its been 5 years since before, its been 12 years since the beginning, and 3 years since the end. one year till the next beginning. theres words scribbled at the end. its not her fault.

it’s been 15 years. there’s others now, a ring on her finger, a hand in her hand. every year she brings him a card and decorates his headstone with tears and flowers, tears that. crystalize on cold stone as she breaths in rapid, gaspy, breaths and thinks about Change and making a Difference and the helplessness comes back so she throws herself into her work. her husband misses her; her superiors commend her on her dedication. she gets promoted. it’s not her fault.

it’s been 20 years. she has a ring on her finger, and two grubby, mittened hands in hers. she leaves him flowers and a card.   
scattered 'mommys!' and 'whyareweheres?' and a lone, definite, 'who was he?'. a lone, quavering, definite, 'a friend. just a friend'. 

she pulls a shaking hand up to her hair, and as it shakes it reminds her of fitz, of quivering and crying and the quietest screaming, of being trapped and not able to know where anything is going. she pulls off a glove and stares at her wrist. 'just a friend,' she lies. there’s words scribbled at the end. it’s not her fault.


End file.
